


I'd Be Your Icarus

by Xanoka



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Coma dreams, Death, Gates of Hell, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Journey through Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Orpheus and Eurydice Myth, Supernatural Elements, Underworld, World War II, death sense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanoka/pseuds/Xanoka
Summary: Steve wasn’t normal. 


   Because when little Susie Hanlon cried about her missing cat, Steve knew right away it had been run over two blocks over.  When Jimmy O’Toole took a fever Steve knew in his bones he wouldn’t last the night.  And when Father McDowell stood, solemn-faced before the congregation, Steve already felt Sister Clara’s absence. 


   And he could feel Death around himself, loosely arranged, like a cape. 

Steve never expected to live past thirty.  Bucky though, Bucky was supposed to  live .  And he will, if Steve has anything to say about it.
(500 word drabbles based on the prompt 'Gate'.  Because my mind jumped instantly to 'Gates of Hell'. Naturally.)





	1. Helios

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know. I have the next two parts mostly written up. I just got impatient and wanted to start posting, so I've gone for 500 word drabbles as a fun writing exercise. Yay! Expect lots of weird Classical Mythology/Judeo-Christian/Avengers mash-ups.

 

Steven Grant Rogers could feel Death.

Ma said it was a Family Gift she’d brought with her from Ireland.  It was strong in her, enough for people to avert their eyes when she looked at them.  Growing up, Steve saw men and women both crossing themselves when she passed. 

_Too pale, too thin_. 

_She drained the life out of her husband, you hear?_

_It’s no wonder… that poor boy…_

Steve had inherited her eyes.  Bright, piercing blue.

But Ma wouldn’t teach him the rituals, or the chants.  Kept the books, the relics, _everything_ locked away in a trunk under her bed.

“It’s best that you don’t know, Steven.”

She wanted him to have a normal life.  As if he could, with his health failing, missing school and superstitious neighbours keeping their kids away from him every time he stepped outside.

She wanted him to be normal.  He _looked_ normal, despite being sickly and too small for his age. 

Steve wasn’t normal.

Because when little Susie Hanlon cried about her missing cat, Steve knew right away it had been run over two blocks over.  When Jimmy O’Toole took a fever Steve knew in his bones he wouldn’t last the night.  And when Father McDowell stood, solemn-faced before the congregation, Steve already felt Sister Clara’s absence.

He didn’t let on.  Ma would be so disappointed.

And he could feel Death around himself, loosely arranged, like a cape.  Through every winter spent shivering in his bed, every asthma attack, every bout of pneumonia and scarlet fever.  Sometimes it drew so close it almost strangled him.  But it never did, not completely. 

He’d be dead before he was thirty, they said.  It was a miracle he’d even made it out of childhood.  Everyone agreed. 

Steve agreed.

Bucky didn’t, of course.

“Nah, you’re not gonna _die_ , Stevie.  Too stubborn to stay down, ya punk.  You’d just get back up again.”

Unlike Steve, Bucky was one of those people who _radiated_ Life.  He wore it proudly, his own splendid, shining armour, and Steve felt warmer just looking at him.  

(They read books together sometimes, when Steve was too sick to get out of bed.  All kinds of things, but his favourites were the old Greek myths, the stories of gods, monsters and heroes.  He’d never say so, but in his mind Bucky was Helios.  He carried the sun with him and it burned the chill of Death away.) 

(And perhaps he was Icarus.  Waiting to be burned right up too, Gift or Curse or whatever it was and all.)

Then Sarah Rogers started coughing.  Steve didn’t need to see the blood in her hands to Know.

When they took her away to the TB ward, Bucky slung an arm around his shoulder and hugged him.

“She’ll be okay, Steve.  She’s tough.  She’ll get better.”

She didn’t, of course.

After the funeral, Bucky squeezed his shoulder.  “I’m with you, Steve.  To the end of the line.”

And he’d accepted that.   He just hadn’t considered whose it’d be.


	2. Ares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I just wanted to warn for a character having semi-suicidal thoughts and low self-worth in case it's triggering for anyone. I don't think it's that pronounced, but I wanted to give you guys a heads up. If you think it might be upsetting for you, you could probably skip this chapter without losing the thread of the story entirely. :)

 

There was a War and the Tides of Life and Death turned.

Steve could feel it near constantly, the creeping itch of bad news before a telegram even had the chance to arrive.  He tried not to go out, tried not to meet anyone’s eyes.  He especially avoided the train stations or the docks.  If he looked too long at those grinning faces, waving to their families or kissing their sweethearts, sometimes, he would _know_. 

It was an icy burn, little pinpricks of chill he could feel, even with the warm weight of Bucky’s arm slung round his shoulder. 

When Mrs O’Neill down the hall got word of her boy in Italy though, he couldn’t avoid it any more.  She never said anything, but her eyes on his back _burned_ worse than Death.

So he went to the Recruitment Centre.  Again.  And again.  And again.

“I’m saving your life,” the Recruitment Officer told him.

And Steve wanted to laugh, feeling the brush of Death heavy on his back.

_No, you’re not_ , he wanted to say.  _You’re just making its end meaningless._

It stung a little.  After fighting it off for so long, when he chose it, when it might have meant something, Death didn’t want him.

He liked to kid himself that Bucky did though, at least a little.  Every time he caught Steve slinking home with another 4F tucked into his back pocket, his forehead would crinkle up, looking at him sadly, like a confused puppy.  That look inevitably stirred a whirl of warmth and irritation and guilt.

“There are men laying down their lives, Buck,” he’d have to say.  “I got no right to do any less than them.”

And Bucky would sigh and nod.  “Course you don’t, Stevie.”

Then Bucky came home, looking apologetic with his enlistment papers, and the world seemed to stop.  It was like a bloodhound catching a scent, and Steve froze, because suddenly Death was looking at _Bucky_. 

For one awful moment he thought, _It’s because of me._

So Steve went to the Recruitment Centre again.  He was from Ohio that time.

 And he couldn’t look at Bucky.

Bucky who went away for training, leaving Steve to lie awake at night, sick with fear, because didn’t accidents happen sometimes?  Didn’t people _die_ at Basic?  And some nights he was so sure he’d feel that cold certainty he couldn’t breathe.

Then Bucky was back, proud and tall in his uniform, hurt and wheedling for Steve’s attention.  But he wouldn’t look.  He _couldn’t_. 

That last night, Bucky flung an arm around him, pulling him into an awkward one-armed hug, breath hot in his ear.

“What’sa matter, punk?  Ya miss me already?”

Steve shivered.  Pulled himself free, almost stumbling right into a Recruitment Centre.  Bucky’s eyes flicked from him to the sign.

“Oh,” his voice was harder, accusing.  “I see.”

“’m not jealous, Buck.”

“Sure you’re not, Stevie.”

So when Bucky disappeared into the crowd at the Stark Expo with their dates, Steve let him go.


End file.
